Off-Kilter
by bowtruckles
Summary: "For the first time in history, Ron and Hermione - Ron and Hermione - are the uncomplicated ones, and Ginny and I are a mess." Hinny angst, Romione fluff. Rated M for suggestions of sexual activity and language. Complete!
1. chapter 1

**A/N: So, this is basically Hinny angst with a generous dose of Romione fluff. It's five chapters total and I hope you enjoy it! Poor Harry can never catch a break, can he?**

Chapter 1

The world has certainly tipped on its axis, or I've entered some sort of alternate universe, or perhaps everything that happened at Hogwarts two months ago has just had that drastic a butterfly effect on the world, but I don't understand anything anymore. For the first time in history, Ron and Hermione - _Ron_ and _Hermione_ \- are the uncomplicated ones, and Ginny and I are a mess. Actually, I don't think there is a Ginny and I anymore. Even when I broke up with her last year, it wasn't because I didn't love her, it was because I did. And she kissed me in her room last year, but maybe that was only because she knew I was about to embark on a mission for my death.

But I'm still alive, and she's the only one who's not impressed. And after so many years of people being amazed at my very existence, and hearing things like "you look like your father but you have your mother's eyes" (which is just painful to hear because it reminds me that I never really knew them), all I ever wanted was for people to leave me the hell alone. But that didn't apply to Ginny.

Still, I got out of the Burrow as fast as I could. Grimmauld Place was a wreck, but I spent my days fixing it up, throwing away the heads of dead house-elves, setting the Black family tapestry ablaze, that sort of thing. Once Ron returned from his sojourn to Australia with Hermione, he joined me in living here. He claims it's because he wants his privacy with Hermione, but I'm sure it's also because his parents, as well-intended and big-hearted as they are, were positively smothering him.

In any case, it's nice not living alone. Since we're both in training to become Aurors at the Ministry, it's like being at Hogwarts all over again. I eat all my meals with him, we attend classes together, we sit around and study in the evenings. And we actually do study now, and Hermione still insists on helping us even though she's not training to be an Auror.

Well, really she just helps Ron, which is fine because her method, while it delivers results, is a bit unconventional and truly only properly suited to Ron anyway. She's got his coursebook in her lap and right now she's quizzing him on the recipes for certain potions, and every time he gets an answer right she kisses him. It's incredibly effective. If she'd done this at Hogwarts, I'm sure his grades would have been as good as hers.

"Veritaserum," she states in her best prefect voice. "Give me the three most crucial ingredients."

They're sitting so closely on the sofa that I'm certain he can just cheat and read the answers, but then I remember that she charms the book so only she can read it when they do this.

"One ounce of Mandrake leaves," he says, never breaking eye contact. "Three ounces of powdered arrowroot, and twelve dead brown recluse spiders."

"Correct," she smiles, leaning over to kiss him.

"Wait, that was technically three answers, don't I get two more?"

I do my best to bury my face in my own coursebook as he puts a hand on her face and kisses her twice more.

"How long does it need to brew?"

"Three weeks, five days, and… seven hours," Ron ventures.

"Correct." She kisses him again. "And which ingredient is added first?"

"The Mandrake leaves," he recites, "one by one, waiting for each to dissolve before adding the next."

"Very good, Ron," says Hermione, genuinely impressed. She slides her legs over his lap and brings her lips to his again. "So then, what's two plus two?"

"What? Four," he chuckles. She kisses him, her hand twisting in the collar of his shirt.

"What's my middle name?"

"Jean." This time when they kiss, there's an actual string of spit that lingers between them as they separate. They are my best friends and the closest thing I have to a family, but they are disgusting sometimes.

"And what color is the sky?"

"We live in London, it's grey."

The book, forgotten, tumbles to the floor as they move to kiss again. Part of me wants to sarcastically interject that none of this will be on our exam on Monday, but they're snogging in earnest now. With a heavy groan, I rise from my armchair and plod toward the stairs. As much as they drove me up the wall with their will-they, won't-they thing, and as much as I'm happy for them, I think I'm glad they weren't officially together until now. I can't imagine having dealt with this in the Gryffindor common room.

My whole life, I decide as I walk into my bedroom, is one big lesson in being careful what you wish for. I was desperate for a family, and when I finally learned I had a godfather, I had about two years to appreciate the meager time I could spend with him before he was murdered in front of me. I wanted the world to just get over me already, and Ginny did just that. I wanted Ron and Hermione to get their shit together, so they kissed for the first time in the midst of an active battle. And they basically haven't stopped kissing since.

I lie in bed, book propped open on my stomach, and attempt to work. Unfortunately, I lack the very unique motivation that Ron has, though I desperately wish I did. Oh, not with Hermione; I wasn't lying to Ron when I said that I love her like a sister. I just miss Ginny. I miss playing Quidditch with her, I miss the walks we used to take around Hogwarts, I miss taking the mickey out of Ron with her, I just miss her. I'm just pathetic.

Ron's pathetic too, so at least I'm not alone in being a lovesick sap. The way he looks at Hermione, it's like he thinks she hung the moon. But he gets to act on it, he has it reciprocated, he's allowed to tell her he loves her and kiss her and be happy. I just have to camp out here, in my dead godfather's room, and study potions and antidotes and defensive spells, and do my best not to think about Ginny. A fool's errand, because once you tell yourself not to think about something, you undoubtedly think about it more.

So since nobody's willing to kiss me every time I answer a question correctly while studying, I reward myself with Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. These were fun when I was eleven, but not so much on the edge of eighteen. Now they're just annoying, and sticky, and each one is a gamble and when I bite into an onion-flavored one, I decide to head into the kitchen in search of real sustenance. To get to the kitchen, however, I have to go past the sitting room.

"Oh, Ron, right there," comes Hermione's breathy moan, though thanks to the positioning of the sofa, I see nothing. "Oh, God, yes."

Rolling my eyes so hard that it strains them, I stomp back up the stairs, my appetite effectively ruined. _Fine_ , I think in annoyance. _Shag on the furniture._ Shag on the furniture that I so painstakingly cleaned in the early weeks following the war and Ginny's rejection and their departure to Australia to fetch Hermione's parents. Just take all my hard work and exchange bodily fluids upon it, that's brilliant. Although, I must admit that Sirius would be thrilled to have a blood traitor and a Muggleborn defiling his family's home. Closing the door to my room, I cast Muffliato on myself in case they decide to get really loud and turn back to my coursebook.

I must fall asleep at some point though, because I have no idea how much time has passed when my bedroom door swings open. Ron's standing there, and his mouth is moving, but I realize I'm still under a muffling charm and grab my wand to undo the spell.

"Sorry, what?" I say, interrupting his stream of words.

"Oh, erm, Hermione and I were getting hungry, so we thought we'd take a break from studying and get something to eat, do you want to go with us?"

"You didn't get enough of a study break already?" I ask, deadpan and meeting his gaze.

Ron's face turns pink and his eyes dart around the room as though he's suddenly rendered very shy by my observation. "So do you want to go with us, or…?"

"Sure," I say, standing up and assessing my attire. My shirt is a bit wrinkled, but I doubt we're going to a five-star restaurant. "You at least cleaned the sofa, right?"

"Yeah, Hermione did a spell," he says, turning even redder. "Sorry."

He doesn't have to be sorry, I feel like telling him as we walk down the stairs. Of course I'd prefer they didn't shag in the middle of the sitting room without bothering to use magic to hide themselves, but he shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to be close to her like that. I know it's not just physical, I know they're in love. Just because my love life has gone down the toilet doesn't mean I begrudge them their happiness.

An hour later, we're all sitting in a nearby Muggle pub, picking at the remains of our fish and chips and drinking cider. It helps to get out of the house and go somewhere that isn't the Ministry or Diagon Alley, not least because I'm constantly photographed everywhere I go. Rita Skeeter still loves speculating about my personal life, and she currently believes that Ron, Hermione and I are embroiled in an acrimonious love triangle. I don't think she believes it's possible for a man and a woman to just be friends.

"So have you talked to Ginny recently?" asks Hermione in a casual, conversational tone. Great. We were all having a nice time and then she goes and brings up the one person I don't want to talk about.

"When exactly would I have talked to her?" I fire back a bit more forcefully than planned. "She doesn't really want to talk to me anyway."

"I know you miss her, Harry."

"Let's not talk about this," I request. "I'm sure Ron doesn't want to hear about it."

"I don't mind," he offers up. "You know I've never had a problem with it, not that my opinion would have mattered to you lot anyway."

His opinion actually had mattered to me quite a bit during sixth year, paralyzing me with the fear of my best mate punching me in the nose. But then, right around the time Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup and Ginny came sprinting across the common room, it stopped mattering. All that mattered was her, that look in her eyes, her hair streaming out behind her and the overwhelming sense that I would regret it forever if I didn't go for it. And even if Ron had hurled the trophy at my head, it would have been worth it.

"Tomorrow's Sunday dinner at the Burrow," Hermione says. "You should join us."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I tell her. I haven't seen Ginny in weeks, and now they expect me to sit down to dinner with her family like everything's normal? Has Hermione finally lost it?

"No, mate, you should come," says Ron around a sip of cider. "I bet my parents would like seeing you."

Not that he means it to be, but it's a total guilt trip. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have done so much for me over the years that all the gold in my vault at Gringotts couldn't begin to repay them. And what have I done? Broken their daughter's heart? Brought their son with me on a death mission? Been the catalyst for a battle that resulted in the death of one of their other sons? No, I don't think I deserve to eat Molly Weasley's cooking.

"I'll think about it," I finally say, even though I know I'm not going. Maybe I'll eat a Puking Pastille to get out of it. Maybe I'll fall down the stairs and break a limb, or just put on my Invisibility Cloak and hide until they give up and leave without me.

Nah, I can't do that. They'd both see right through it (not the Cloak, obviously, just the feeble attempts at avoidance). I just don't think I can go back there quite yet.

Hermione has been spending most weekend nights here, so when we get back from the pub, Ron pulls her wordlessly upstairs to his room. I hurry to my own room just long enough to snag my coursebook before returning to the kitchen to make tea. It's easier to study in here, anyway. The wooden chairs at the table make me want to focus rather than take a nap. For a few hours, anyway, I manage to do some good, solid revision. It turns out that it's much easier to focus on schoolwork when there isn't the threat of the darkest wizard in existence hanging over me every second.

At approximately eleven at night, the brightest witch of her age comes strolling into the kitchen wearing her boyfriend's bathrobe. The garment utterly dwarfs her, the sleeves hanging down over her hands.

"Harry!" she exclaims, jumping about a foot when she sees me. "I didn't know you were down here."

"Yeah, just me, don't worry."

Fetching a glass from the cupboard, Hermione fills it with water from the sink. She uses one hand to hold the neck of the robe together as she turns to face me.

"I'm really sorry about earlier," she starts in with a pained expression, "I know that must be so awkward-"

"Don't be," I say. "It's no big deal."

"I just feel bad, I mean, we should probably exercise a bit more self-control." Well, probably, I mentally agree, though I know she's not just talking about their little afternoon romp in the sitting room. She's talking about the little things, the hand-holding, the kissing in reward for studying game, the times when she falls asleep with her head in his lap. And she shouldn't feel bad about wanting to be affectionate with him. They spent years holding back from one another, I don't want them doing it now because of me.

"No, it's fine," I tell her. "You're my best friends, I want you to be happy. And I mean, I remember what it's like to… to be all blissed out on someone like that."

"Oh, Harry, come to dinner tomorrow!" Hermione cries, flinging herself into the chair across from me. "What's the worst that happens?"

"The worst? That she completely ignores me." I'd rather she use her signature Bat-Bogey Hex, or call me a prat and punch me in the bollocks, because then I would at least know she still cares. Indifference would be the worst thing.

"Well, logically, I don't think that will happen, Ginny's got a bit of a temper."

"Thanks. That makes me feel loads better."

"I know she misses you, she's just hurt right now." Hermione gives a little tug on the neck of her/Ron's robe, obviously self-conscious about her attire.

"Shouldn't you get back upstairs? Won't he wonder where you are?"

"No, he's asleep," she dismisses that notion. "Maybe if you just talk to her-"

"I have!" I shoot back. "Of course I have, but she doesn't want to hear it, she keeps telling me that I think everything should happen on my terms and I'm a selfish arsehole. She thinks I chucked her because I got bored or something-"

"No, she doesn't," Hermione asserts confidently. "She knows why you did it, but it's not that easy to dive into something with someone unless you know they won't hurt you again." She's obviously speaking from experience. "For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing."

"See, I don't know if I did," I confess. "I don't know what I was thinking. Even if she wasn't my girlfriend, she was still part of the biggest blood traitor family around, and I mean, for all we knew, Snape could have gone to Voldemort at any time and told him about me and Ginny, he was our teacher all year, I just…" Dropping my head in my hands, I grab two fistfuls of my already-messy hair. "I was just trying to protect her, but I fucked it all up. Did you know she was the last thing I thought about when I went to go sacrifice myself? And that I spent all last year watching her dot on the Marauder's Map?"

"Harry," Hermione says gently, placing a hand on my arm so that I release my hair. "You should tell her all of this, but more than that… you have to show her."

"Show her."

"Yes," insists Hermione. "You know, Ron and I, we were right on the verge of something… but then he left. And it took me a long time to trust him again - I mean, really trust him not to do anything like that ever again, and he must have apologized to me about a thousand times but that wasn't what did it."

I can tell she doesn't like talking about this, and neither do I. Our months on the run were rarely, if ever, enjoyable, but the weeks Ron was gone - five or so, they all bled together - were hands down the worst. Hermione and I were miserable, and we reminded each other of Ron so we only interacted when absolutely necessary. But she's discussing it now, so that means that it matters.

"So what did he do?"

"Well, it wasn't one thing, it was everything," she says. "Just the things he did day in and day out, little things that he did not expecting anything in return… one day I realized that he was always going to be there for me and I didn't have to be afraid anymore."

"So…" I haven't had a heart-to-heart with Hermione like this possibly ever. "So you're saying Ginny's afraid?"

"Yes! She loves you - oh, don't look at me like that, she does - and she needs to know you're not going anywhere. And you can show her that you're not, and you can start by going to dinner tomorrow." Hermione nods decisively like she knows she has just proven her point.

"I said I would think about it."

"But you were lying." Finishing off her glass of water, she stands on bare feet. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

"You started this conversation," I remind her, smiling in spite of myself.

"Yes, well, you needed to hear it."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

 _Thank you for reading! Please leave a review :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for your responses to the first chapter! I appreciate it more than you know. I hope you enjoy this one too. :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own HP, and I don't make money from any of this.**

* * *

Chapter 2

By the time I wake up the next day, it's mid-afternoon. I stayed up until the early hours of the morning staring at the pages of my book and thinking through what Hermione said to me. As always, she's right. When Ron came back, after he and I cleared the air, he told me that he was certain he had ruined any chance he possibly had with Hermione. But it didn't stop him from putting her first, always, or offering his life in exchange for hers, or never leaving her side at Shell Cottage. He did all that merely out of love for her, not because he hoped he might somehow win her back. Even his comment about not wanting the house elves to die for us - the one that had her running into his arms - was made out of genuine concern, not an attempt to impress her.

The truth is that I do love Ginny, of course I do, I never stopped. And I reckon I have very little to lose and everything to gain by showing up to dinner at the Weasleys', but Ginny might see it as an attempt to do things on 'my terms' again, when I don't want to do things on my terms. I want them on her terms, but I want our terms to match.

"Morning, sunshine," Ron calls cheerily from the kitchen. The counter is cluttered with sacks of flour, tubs of sugar, a carton of eggs, and… Hermione, of course. They appear to have prepared some sort of chocolatey batter, presumably for cake, but I would bet an unreasonable amount of Galleons that they are eating most of it raw.

I will say that after nearly seven years of cohabiting with Ron Weasley in some capacity or another, the one thing I didn't expect about living with him like this is that he bakes. A lot. And he's actually good. And I reckon that Hermione finds it charming, because half the time she's here, they're whipping up some sort of baked good and/or using the activity as an excuse to flirt shamelessly with each other. As I walk into the kitchen in search of an ice-cold pumpkin juice, I realize they're doing the latter.

"Oh, no," Ron says dramatically, holding a wooden spoon covered in chocolate goo over the counter so that it dribbles everywhere. "I think I spilled some."

"Oh, dear," Hermione plays along, using one finger to wipe up part of the mess. She starts aiming toward his face, but he intercepts her and licks the batter off her finger before kissing her full on the mouth.

Sometimes the way he kisses her, it's like he literally can't continue living unless he does so. I remember that feeling; it had me checking the Marauder's Map between classes for those final three weeks of sixth year so I could find and kiss Ginny, however briefly. And I still feel it all the time, so much so that I'm becoming the moody, bitter shell of a person that I was when I was fifteen. I really haven't felt this shitty since Sirius died.

"You need to shave," Hermione comments, running her fingertips over Ron's jaw.

"What, you don't like it?" Looking entirely too mischievous, he rubs his cheek into her neck, making her squeal and nudge him away.

"It scratches!"

"Oh, sorry, here, I'll make it feel better." He only manages to land a couple of kisses on her neck before she halts him with a whispered "Ron, stop."

"So Harry," Hermione says, wiping up Ron's mess with an actual cloth, "are you coming to dinner tonight?"

"I said I would think about it!" I snap, nearly spilling my juice with my gesticulations. Hermione recoils like I'm a snake that's lunged at her, but Ron is unfazed.

"Well, I already owled my parents to tell them you're coming," he comments. I almost fling the pumpkin juice in his face.

"Why the hell would you do that?" I bellow.

"Because every damn time I go over there, you're all they ask about. 'How's _Harry_ , we _miss_ him, how's he _doing_ , is he _okay_ , do tell him to drop by _anytime_ ' - so please just do me a favor and come to dinner so they'll stop nagging me."

Ron's guilt trip, which this time is intentional, is working. His mother gave me her dead brother's watch for my seventeenth birthday, for Merlin's sake. Maybe the least I can do is not ignore people who brought me into their family without a second thought.

"Fine," I surrender grumpily. "I'll go. But just for dinner, I'm not sticking around for a butterbeer and a round of chess."

"Because you know you'll lose at chess, or…?"

Ron clearly thinks this is hilarious from the way he smirks to himself, but Hermione, not wanting to choose sides, begins lining the wells of the cupcake tray with paper cups. They have two very different approaches to dealing with me. Ron thinks he can joke and cajole me back into a good mood, as if it's so simple (and I would point out all the times he was insufferable thanks to pining over Hermione but I don't fancy an argument), and Hermione either walks on eggshells or doles out advice. I know she only stopped Ron kissing her because I'm in the room, and as much as they can be nauseating to behold, I meant it last night when I told her that it was fine, and that I understand. Just because I'm miserable doesn't mean they have to be.

Snagging a scone from the counter, I start back toward my bedroom, intent on letting them be alone so they can eat cake batter off of each other or whatever it is they do."

"We're leaving at six, Harry," Hermione calls after me. "You had better be ready."

Ready. Something tells me I'll never quite be ready to see Ginny again. What do I say? How do I act? Part of me wants to ask Ron for advice, after all, he's got plenty of experience hacking off women (just one in particular, really), but it's too awkward to ask him how to get back in his sister's good graces. Or is it? He gifted me _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_ last year knowing full well how I felt and still feel about his sister, so I don't think he's as disturbed by it as everyone would like to believe. And wow, since when do I feel compelled to consult _Ron_ for relationship advice?

Ultimately, after eating my scone in bed and using magic to vanish the crumbs, I decide to consult the book. There's a lot in there about compliments and taking an interest in her interests but nothing about what to do when you broke up with your girlfriend to protect her from a dark wizard. And somehow I just don't think telling Ginny her hair looks pretty and talking about Quidditch will make up for everything else. She'd see right through it, probably call me on my bullshit, and I'd be in an even worse position.

Oddly, the fact that it can get worse instills me with a sort of hope. I suppose I'll know when I've hit rock bottom, and this probably isn't it yet.

When I troop down to the kitchen at ten to six, I find them snogging once again. But it's not the eating-each-other's-faces, swallowing-each-other's-tongues sort of snog. It's the gentle, lazy, I-could-do-this-all-day sort, and for a moment, it stuns me. Ron is my best friend, and I would trust him with my life, and I have done in the past. He's one of the best people I know, but for a long time he was loud, and immature, and impulsive and dreadfully insecure. He's never been subtle or sensitive the way he's being now, with Hermione, but then again he's never had a girlfriend that he actually cared about.

And then, all at once, it infuriates me. Why is it so simple for them? They've always been the dramatic ones, the ones who are absolute crap at communicating, the ones who existed in purgatory for months on end. They were able to put the past behind them and start over with each other, and I wish Ginny and I could do that but I'm not really sure how. There are things I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget our first kiss in the common room, or the sun-drenched afternoons by the lake, or even that stolen moment on my birthday last year. I don't know how to hang onto these things and start fresh at the same time.

"I love you," Hermione says between kisses, linking her fingers with Ron's. He returns the sentiment, kissing the corner of her mouth, and I realize I've never heard them exchange these words before. It sends a heavy pit of loneliness and deep regret into my stomach with such force that I have to run to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I never said those words to Ginny, it always seemed too soon, and then Dumbledore died and I never had the chance. Maybe I should tell her now, at least that way she would know.

I return to the kitchen, a bit more composed now, and find that they've broken apart and are quietly talking.

"You ready to go, mate?" asks Ron, removing his hands from Hermione's waist.

"I guess," I mutter. "We aren't going to stay late, right? We have an exam tomorrow."

"Well, I don't _think_ my parents were planning to throw an all-night rager, but you never know," Ron quips as he walks away to find his shoes.

"We don't have to stay late," Hermione says as an aside to me, giving a sympathetic smile. "I've got to get home at some point too."

"Do your parents mind that you spend the night here?" I ask her. After all, they must know she and Ron aren't exactly knitting sweaters all night.

"No, not really. I think they understand, and they really like Ron so I think they feel like if I'm going to be with anyone, they're glad it's him."

Thinking about this, I realize I know so little of what a normal relationship between a parent and a child might look like; the Dursleys sure didn't set a good example. There's Ron's parents, who bewitched his and Ginny's bedroom doors to always stay open so as to keep their children pure, and then there's Hermione's parents, who have always given her the independence she craves. The closest thing I had to a parent was Sirius and he was in hiding most of the time. Maybe if he'd actually gotten to raise me - or in a perfect world, if my actual parents were still alive - I might not be like this. I might know how to navigate relationships, I might not be so neurotic. I would be able to handle one dinner sitting at the same table with my ex-girlfriend (ugh, I don't like thinking of her as my ex), because he could help me figure out what to do.

But I don't get much more time to ponder it, because in the next instant Ron has grabbed my arm so tightly that I'll likely be bruised and the three of us Apparate directly into the garden of the Burrow. It's the same, really. There's still chickens clucking in the yard, still old Wellington boots by the door, still a bunch of chimneys on the roof. This used to be my favorite place in the world and now it makes my stomach churn.

"Oh, you're early!" Mrs. Weasley exclaims, giving Ron and Hermione a hug and a kiss each as we walk into the kitchen. "Harry, dear, it's so lovely to see you!" I find myself drawn into a warm, crushing embrace. "Well, dinner won't be ready for another hour or so."

"Great, thanks, Mum," says Ron, grabbing a dinner roll off the table. "Come on, Harry, we're playing chess."

Naturally I have no choice but to go along with him, so I allow myself to be nudged into the sitting room. The first thing I see is not the little chess table and chairs by the window, or the fireplace, or the vast bookshelf - no, all I see is Ginny, sitting on the sofa, her knees pulled up to her chest, holding Arnold the Pygmy Puff. Her hair is longer than ever, tumbling over her shoulders and halfway down her back. She's bloody stunning, even in jeans and an old t-shirt, and it feels a little like being smacked in the face. Someone jabs me sharply in the back - likely Hermione - and I find my voice.

"Hi, Ginny," I say, hoping I sound at least moderately normal.

She glances up, goes "hi, Harry" and then returns to gently bouncing Arnold from palm to palm. Hermione bounds over and joins Ginny on the couch as Ron steers me toward the chess table and I find myself seated in the chair with a direct view of the sofa. As he starts setting up the game pieces, I try to find something to focus on that isn't Ginny or the sound of her voice or her smile as she talks with Hermione.

It's impossible. Ron can already beat me at chess in his sleep, but I'm so distracted by her casual conversation - asking about the koalas in Australia, the certainty she feels about Hermione being Head Girl at Hogwarts in the fall - that my brain cannot clear up the space to think strategically. It's probably for the best that we never had classes together at Hogwarts, because I would have failed everything.

"Knight to E5," I instruct my pieces, and Ron's eyebrows slide up his forehead. "What?"

"No, nothing," he replies innocently. "Nothing at all."

"I don't know why you even want to play me, I'm rubbish at this, it can't be challenging."

"Oh, it's challenging," says Ron. "Challenging to comprehend the moves you make."

There is a sharp snort of laughter from the sofa, and my head jerks up to meet Ginny's eyes. Smirking, she holds my gaze for about half a second before popping Arnold onto her shoulder. I can't tell if her laughter was malicious, intended to wound, or playful, laughing along with Ron and with me and everyone else who knows that I am rubbish at chess. I'm okay with either outcome, because it at least means she cares one way or the other. She's aware that I'm here.

As Ron makes his next move, Ginny sweeps her hair so that the long, fiery locks all hang over one shoulder. If my best mate minds that I'm ogling his younger sister, he doesn't let on. Plus, I think he has a certain intuition that Ginny and I never got much further than a fully-clothed snog. Unlike him and Hermione, who left for Australia as virgins and returned one-hundred-percent not as virgins, Ginny and I took it relatively slow. I reckon I just thought, during those final weeks of my magical education, that I had all the time in the world with her. Of course I knew Voldemort and his minions were out to get me, but I never thought about our relationship ending. I reckon I was just trying to enjoy it while it was happening. I wonder what I would have done differently if I had known what was coming.

"Checkmate," he says calmly, and I nod in resignation. "And I'm going to the loo."

Crossing the room, he ducks down to kiss Hermione before making his way to the zigzagging staircase and taking the steps two at a time. I catch Ginny's eye and cringe just slightly, as if to say 'aren't Ron and Hermione nauseating?' but the message must not come through properly, because she breaks eye contact and goes back to her conversation. I busy myself with organizing the game pieces until Ron returns and rejoins me at the table.

"Got plenty of time until dinner," he comments. "I'll play you again."

"Yeah, I wonder why we showed up so early," I hiss across the table, taking care to angle myself so Ginny can't see.

"Happy accident, I s'pose," Ron grins. "Come on, make the first move." It takes a quick second for me to realize he's talking about the game of chess.

Just then, Mrs. Weasley appears in the doorway, taking in the scene. "Ginny, dear," she requests, "come help me with the pudding."

Without a word, Ginny rises from the sofa and goes to join her mother, her small bare feet sinking into the plush carpeting as she goes. I wonder if there will be a day when I don't internally combust any time she does anything. The second she disappears, Hermione leaps off the furniture and approaches the chess table.

"So?" she asks me, eyes gleaming, like she expects me to divulge something juicy.

"So _what_?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow in confusion. "I said hi. She said hi back. It's fascinating stuff, I know."

"So aren't you glad you came?" she persists as Ron pulls her gently onto his lap.

"Erm…" Glad seems like a really strong word. "I don't regret it. Yet."

"Good," she replies. "I think I'll go help with the pudding." After kissing Ron, she stands up and strides confidently into the kitchen.

"She's interfering," I tell Ron, startling him out of gazing after Hermione as she walks away.

"Yeah, well, that's what Hermione does. You know how she is once she puts her mind to something."

I recall all too easily a bleary-eyed Hermione knitting hats and sweaters for the house elves of Hogwarts and charging half of Gryffindor two Sickles each to join her club. Ron may love this quality in her, but right now I could do with a more subdued Hermione. I'm not terribly interested in being one of her crusades. This isn't something that she can solve by burying her nose in library books, and her meddling will likely just make things worse.

"Could she maybe not, just this once?"

At this, Ron lets out a little chuckle. "Fine, try telling her what to do. See how that goes for you." He kicks me swiftly under the table. "Your move."

Bill and Fleur arrive shortly thereafter, followed by Percy, and then finally, just before the clock strikes seven, George materializes. Charlie returned to Romania a few weeks ago to continue his work with dragons and he's not expected to resurface until Christmas. I know it's been over two months, but it's still jarring to see George by himself. I've lost plenty of people in my life, but I don't know what it's truly like to lose a sibling. Ron's as good as my brother, and I remember all too well the terror I felt when he was poisoned last year - and he survived. Fred did not.

So understandably, George has just been a little, well, _less_ than he used to be. The joke shop still stands abandoned in Diagon Alley, and he's been staying with friends. He knows he's welcome at Grimmauld Place, as I have a ton of spare bedrooms, but he politely declined. He's always cordial enough, and Ron has told me not to take it personally, but I wouldn't be surprised if George blames me.

We all sit down at the long, wooden table, Hermione on my left and Percy on my right. Across from me is Bill, but he's sandwiched between his wife and his only sister, so once again I have a good view of Ginny. The food all looks and smells amazing and I realize as my stomach grumbles that one scone all day is hardly enough to sustain a person. Everyone's fairly quiet as the meal begins, though I sense that Ron and Hermione are having one of their weird silent conversations, where they make eye contact a few different ways and it conveys a message. It must be nice to be that connected to someone. Every minute or so, a small finger pokes me in the thigh until I finally turn to glare at Hermione. She plays it off like she's completely innocent - she needs to spend less time with Ron, I decide.

The Weasleys are usually so loud and boisterous that this silence is unnerving, and I decide I need to fill it.

"So, Ginny, are you going to be Quidditch captain this year?" I ask brightly, hoping this can spark a lively discussion in a Quidditch-obsessed family.

"I don't know, maybe," Ginny responds, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We haven't gotten our Hogwarts letters yet, and unlike some people, I don't like to just assume things."

I can save this. "Well, I just thought, since you were so good last year-"

"Last year? How would you know, exactly?" Ginny counters in a clipped tone. And you know, I don't even know if there was Quidditch last year. I doubt it was high on Snape or McGonagall's list of priorities. "We've never actually talked about last year, remember?"

Beside me, Hermione has gone completely rigid. "Er," I stammer, "I meant the year before, I-" And then I cram a roasted potato wedge into my mouth to shut myself up. I have really chosen a terrifying girl to fall in love with; her brown eyes are like daggers.

"Gringotts is fully restored," Bill chimes in, which I think is an attempt to help but can only worsen matters, as it's a stark reminder that Ron, Hermione and I are felons. "Looks better than ever."

"I reckon Harry thinks he can just do whatever he wants, doesn't he?" Ginny comments icily.

"Ginevra!" Mrs. Weasley scolds. Ginny looks like she wants to fight back before thinking better of it and vigorously slicing into her roast beef.

I'm too intertwined with this family; there's not a topic in the world that Ginny can't steer back to a spiteful remark about me. We can't talk about Ron's Auror training, because I'm part of it. Quidditch is clearly off the table. We can't even talk about any current events, because the wizarding community is still in repair following the war, and it all comes back to me, the fucking Boy Who Lived. Ron makes it a point to mention that he has an exam tomorrow, no doubt planting the seed for us to make an early getaway. He really is a good friend and his ability to stay neutral, when Ginny wants nothing to do with me and Hermione is shoving us together, is nothing short of miraculous.

Pudding is served, and I basically make a disgusting mush of mine because I have no appetite anymore, even though this feels rather disrespectful to Mrs. Weasley. Ron bolts his down in approximately twelve seconds and stands up. "Hate to eat and run, but we do have an exam tomorrow morning,"

"Oh, sweetie, that's okay," Mrs. Weasley says, coming over to hug him. "You go home and study, you've been working so hard." I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep a straight face. If only his mother knew what his idea of studying actually looks like…

The next few minutes are a flurry of hugs and well-wishes from the family, and after Mrs. Weasley releases me from her vice-like yet affectionate grip, I find myself face to face with Ginny. A decision must be made, I realize, as to if I should hug her like she didn't spend all of dinner sniping at me at every turn - and I do want to hug her, that's the really crazy thing. I do recall, however, that after Ron came back to us, he let Hermione be. Gone was the touchy-feeliness of the summer, mostly because he didn't want to be kicked in the groin or beaten with his own rucksack again. But more importantly, he knew not to push it, and I must do the same thing here.

"See you later," I say to her, attempting a smile.

"Bye," Ginny says flatly in response, and then Hermione grabs my elbow and drags me into the garden so we can Apparate home.

Our landing on the front porch of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place is a wobbly one, but this is a Muggle neighborhood so we can't just Apparate into the street.

"Well, I suppose I should be getting home too," Hermione says, turning and hugging me around the neck. "Bye, Harry… and sorry."

Well, it's not her fault, and actually without her I'd certainly be dead, so I bid her goodbye and head into the house so they can say a proper farewell without me watching. I think I've met my socializing quota for the day, so I trudge up to my room and shut the door. My options are to sleep or study, and while I'm rather sick of staring at my course books, I'm not remotely tired and I don't fancy lying in the dark and overanalyzing the entire evening.

I thought, when I was bullied into attending the dinner, that even Ginny's wrath would be preferable over indifference, but I suppose part of me was living in a fantasy world in which we'd end the night laughing and snogging and madly in love. And I know forgiveness takes time, and I can't expect her to come running into my arms like the ending to a romantic film just because we had dinner together, but Ginny and I were friends once. If nothing else, I'd at least prefer to lose the snide comments and the angry stares and the unbearable awkwardness that arose anytime we were in a room together. Ron and Hermione are my best friends, and she's Ron's sister and Hermione's friend so it's not like I can avoid her forever. Maybe friendship - at the very least, civility - is all I can wish for. It's better than life without her at all.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading! Please review :)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback from the last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and I make no money from this.

* * *

"Well, that wasn't so bad," says Ron as we walk out of our exam. "I think I might have mixed up the ingredients for the antidote to a Paralysis Potion, though, does it have eight leeches and six doxy eggs or is it the other way around?"

"Er, no, I think you have it right," I tell him. Though much of our training is field work, practicing spells and joining experienced Aurors in reconnaissance work and other lower-risk missions, all of our classroom work and exams take place at the Ministry.

"Okay, good, I thought so. Do you want to get lunch?"

"Sure," I agree, so we head into a lift and make our way to the Ministry cafe, which is located on the far end of the Atrium. The first couple of times I was ever in this building, it was as a suspected criminal (for doing underage magic, which was so extreme) or as an actual criminal, because we were under disguises and here to steal. And now, I'm training to apprehend and arrest people who have done just what I have. Of course, it was very different circumstances, which is why no charges will be pressed against Ron, Hermione and me for our transgressions. Still, the irony cannot be overlooked.

After obtaining our sandwiches and bottles of pumpkin juice, we find a little table in the back corner. Even though we're at the Ministry rather regularly, people still tend to stare. They notice Ron's hair, and then they realize that they've seen that tall redheaded kid's photo in the Daily Prophet along with Harry Potter, and then they notice my crazy black hair and my scar and then all hope of having a normal day is lost. Whatever normal means, anyway.

"So, erm," Ron begins between bites, "I was going to have Hermione over for dinner tonight, you know, if that's okay."

It is so like him to start thinking about his next meal while still eating his current one, and yet this polite, simple question incenses me in a way I can't comprehend.

"You don't have to ask my permission like I'm your mother or something," I spit with a bit more aggression than intended. "Yes, Ron. You can have your girlfriend over for dinner."

"Well, I just-" He drops his sandwich down on the plate. "I was trying to be a considerate housemate, you know, it's not a big deal, I can go a day."

"Can you?"

"I prefer not to." He grins, but only briefly. "The only reason I asked is because Hermione, er, told me to, she reckons you might feel like a third wheel all the time-"

"It's been that way for years, you two just hadn't figured it out yet."

I know exactly what will happen tonight. Hermione will come over, we'll all eat a nice little meal, she and Ron will go upstairs to shag, and then she'll go home. This doesn't even really affect my life, except that I might need to cast a charm so I don't overhear them. And if I feel like a third wheel, it's only because seven years ago, I befriended two people who are oddly perfect for each other. That is not their fault.

"Just have her over," I tell him. "She's my friend too, in case you've forgotten."

"I'll send her a Patronus then, once we're home." Deeming the topic resolved, Ron picks up his sandwich again and takes an enormous bite.

"Could we maybe blacklist a certain topic of conversation, though?"

"My sister?" he asks knowingly.

"Yeah. I know Hermione means well but she's got to stop meddling, it's not helping."

"Er…" Ron takes a long sip of his pumpkin juice. "Thing about Hermione is, if you tell her what she's doing isn't working, she's just going to try a hundred times harder, so you're best just letting it be."

"Ugh, you're right. Fine. I'll let it be."

After lunch, we go back up to the classrooms and take diligent notes on proper interrogation techniques and the very unique set of circumstances that must occur before we are authorized to use Veritaserum on a suspect. For all of the half-dozing we did in classes like History of Magic, Ron and I are pretty decent student Aurors. Perhaps it's because we know it could make all the difference between life or death, between good and evil. Learning about goblin rebellions from centuries ago isn't applicable in daily life, but the best method to avoid being killed or injured on the job? That we need to know.

At five in the evening, when our hands have sufficiently seized up, we Floo back to Grimmauld Place. Ron doesn't even take off his shoes before sending a little silver terrier bounding through the air to Hermione to invite her over. Within minutes, a silver otter swims into the sitting room to tell him not to cook anything because she'll bring dinner. Immediately I see that he wants to argue, but reconsiders and instead flops down on the sofa with a Quidditch magazine.

The one thing Ron and Hermione do less of is argue. Even the bickering and the bantering has died down, and I don't think it's just because their mouths are occupied with another activity. Before, they were tamping down their feelings, trying to deny them or reinterpret them, and the unresolved tension between them manifested in little disagreements and debates. Now, there's no secrets. Everything's out in the open. He even told her about the locket - I know because she came into my room one night after they returned from Australia, crying and horrified and furious that I didn't tell her (as if it was at all my thing to tell). So they're free now just to relax in the easy chemistry they always shared: talking, joking, teaming up to protect me. Being fully open with someone like that, completely vulnerable yet trusting them wholly, must be a daunting thing at first, but it's probably quite wonderful too. After all, I know firsthand how powerful love is. It saved all our lives.

"This is the most annoying house sometimes," Hermione laments when she appears on the porch an hour later. "Your Muggle neighbors were just standing out there talking for, well, it felt like hours, and I can't just go vanishing into thin air in front of them."

Since Ron selected this exact moment to use the loo, I usher her inside and take the two large pizza boxes from her arms.

"Why didn't you just Apparate to the porch?" I ask her as I set the pizza boxes on the counter and she fetches three plates from the cupboard.

"Well, they already saw me, so I couldn't - oof!" Unbeknownst to her, Ron has swooped into the kitchen and hugged her exuberantly from behind, startling her into almost dropping the plates. "Ron!"

"You brought pizza," he sighs in delight. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."

"Pizza is the only reason you keep me around?" she asks, swiveling in his arms to face him.

"Maybe not the only reason…"

As Hermione stands on her toes to kiss him, I open up one of the boxes and grab myself a slice, plates be damned. Pizza is a novelty for Ron, who went from eating his mother's cooking to the meals at Hogwarts, but Hermione introduced him to it recently and he's enamored. And while I grew up with Muggles, I was never allotted the "fun" food that Dudley got, so I had only tried it once or twice.

Eventually they break apart and Hermione levitates three plates over to the kitchen table, then immediately jumps up and begins rummaging through her beaded bag. Even though the small purse that she bewitched has a complicated history with us, Hermione feels that it was an excellent bit of difficult spellwork and uses it in her daily life.

"Whatcha doing?" asks Ron, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth.

"I forgot… oh, where is it… no, it must be here, I just…" she mumbles to herself as she digs through its cavernous interior. She still keeps it loaded with necessities.

"Do explain, won't you?" Ron teases, and she shoots him a glare (oh, it feels just like old times) before coming up with a large square envelope bearing a thick red wax seal.

"I got my Hogwarts letter!" Hermione exclaims merrily, returning to her seat beside Ron.

"You haven't opened it yet?"

"Well, no, I thought I should open it with the both of you." Ron and I exchange befuddled glances. "You won't be getting final Hogwarts letters, so I thought you could live vicariously through mine."

Ron pulls his lower lip completely into his mouth to hold back a smirk. Evidently, Hermione is under the impression that Ron and I, perhaps secretly, have cherished our magical education just as much as she has. Don't get me wrong, Hogwarts changed my life, and as much as the magical world has tried to destroy me, it's also given me everything I have. He and I just don't lose our heads over the smell of new parchment the way she does.

"What?" Hermione snaps, taking in the expression on her boyfriend's face.

"No, nothing," he assures her, leaning over and kissing her cheek. "It's a very you thing to do. Go on then, open it."

Giving him a skeptical look, Hermione carefully opens the heavy envelope and pulls out a folded stack of parchment, out of which tumbles a crimson and gold badge.

"I'm Head Girl!" says Hermione excitedly, cradling the badge in her palms like it's a precious gem.

"Of course you are," replies Ron warmly, and I nod my agreement through a mouthful of pizza. Setting down the badge as though it may break if she's too cavalier with it, Hermione begins sifting through the rest of the parchment.

"Oh, Professor Flitwick is Deputy Headmaster now," Hermione observes as she reads her letter. "And here's a list of all my Head Girl responsibilities…"

"Blimey," Ron interrupts, having picked up a third sheet, "you need this many books? How many classes are you taking?"

"It feels like third year all over again," I remark quietly, but my comment is lost.

"All the usual ones," Hermione's saying. "Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Herbology, Defense Against The Dark Arts-"

"You really shouldn't have to take Defense Against The Dark Arts after last year," Ron decides as he continues to peruse her list of required textbooks.

"It's still very important. What are you becoming an Auror for, then, your health?"

When they do argue, though, it makes me insanely nostalgic. If not for a few very different details, we could easily be sitting under the bewitched ceiling of the Great Hall. Sitting back in my chair, I take a bite of pizza and watch the scene before me like it's a television program.

"I just don't want you to run yourself ragged like you have before," Ron says.

"I expect I'll have a bit more time without the two of you constantly distracting me."

"Don't say it like it's such a good thing."

Hermione was offered a spot in Auror training, but she never fancied becoming an Auror the way Ron and I always have, and instead she opted to return to Hogwarts to complete her NEWT year. I don't even want to think about what a miserable sod Ron will be when she's gone, but at least he'll have the comfort of knowing that his beloved misses him and wants to see him too. Me, I get to bask in the knowledge that given her way, Ginny would hex me into a jelly.

"I didn't mean that I wouldn't miss you," Hermione counters, kissing Ron to placate him, which works. "It's NEWT year, so everyone will be busy - and as much as you got yelled at for suggesting it, Harry, I'm sure Ginny's Quidditch captain so we'll both have a lot going on."

Ahh, the G-word. I've been wondering when her name might crop up. Ron takes a huge bite of pizza, probably to extricate himself from the upcoming conversation.

"I was thinking about it," Hermione continues, "and I don't think dinner went as poorly as you think it did."

"Look, it's okay, Hermione," I say in my calmest, most diplomatic voice. "I appreciate your concern, but I think this is just how things are going to be from now on."

"You can't possibly be alright with that."

"I'm not," I admit carefully. "It'd be nice to at least be civil, but that's really up to her."

"Hmm," is Hermione's only response. She has a thoughtful expression on her face, however, that I don't particularly care for.

"I can tell that you're scheming," I say to her. "Please stop scheming."

"No, I'm not," she denies with a vehemence that betrays her. Snickering, Ron hides his face behind his glass of water.

"I hate you both."

Ron dissolves into a fit of laughter - I'm glad my pain is so amusing to the bloke who claims to be my best mate - and the topic of conversation shifts to the exam we took earlier. They talk easily, comfortably, in the way of old friends, and I'm content to just sit back and let it happen. They worry so much that I'll feel like a third wheel around them, but I'd rather spend time with them than be alone.

Alas, my moment to be alone does arrive as we finish eating and the pair of them slink off to his bedroom as if I don't know exactly what they're about to do. The house falls silent as I pack up the leftover pizza and set it under a cooling charm so it won't spoil. Ron's Quidditch magazine still lies abandoned on the sofa, so I pick up where he left off and find myself reading about the All-England team's new Keeper.

Sometimes it feels like I'm just biding my time, waiting for something to happen. A person's life shouldn't revolve around a relationship, this I know - if that were so, Ron would be going back to Hogwarts or Hermione would be staying home - but it certainly seems to provide some purpose. There's someone to consider aside from yourself, someone to look out for and share your triumphs and tribulations with, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. If that's an unhealthy way of thinking, then so be it. It sure beats reading about sports while your best friend is off having alone time with your other best friend.

Or maybe I'm just not used to all of the downtime. Maybe it reminds me of the long summer hours locked in my bedroom at the Dursleys' with just Hedwig to keep me company. Maybe without the constant threat of death and a near-impossible mission to thwart it looming over me, I'm a bit like a rudderless ship.

I just need a hobby, I conclude, and so I begin digging through the hall closet in search of inspiration. There's a tangled ball of yarn and some knitting needles, but I don't know how to knit and honestly, it sounds about as fun as watching paint dry. There's an old Gobstones set, which is a fun game when you're eleven but tends to lose its appeal. Shoved way in a back corner, however, I locate a crate packed to the brim with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products from the early days of the twins' mail-order business. Inside, I find the shredded remains of an Extendable Ear upon which Crookshanks took out his wrath, a trick wand that morphs into a pencil when I wave it, some bottles of love potion that must be long-expired, and a Punching Telescope that leaps out of my hand and explodes, but not before it socks me directly in the left eyeball. Howling in pain, I drop the crate, the corner of which drives directly into the top of my foot.

Of course. I hobble up the stairs in search of bruise removal paste, which I'm fairly certain resides in the bathroom cupboard. This is risky, because the bathroom shares a wall with Ron's room, but it's been about forty-five minutes and I just don't give him that much credit. Already, I can feel the skin around my eye swelling, obscuring my vision, as I stumble into the loo. Through the wall, I hear a bit of murmuring, but the words are indiscernible. Illuminating the tip of my wand, I kneel down and begin to search.

"Ron, that tickles," Hermione whines suddenly, voice edged with giggles. And she is absolutely not the type of girl who giggles. This something only Ron can elicit from her, and the laughter grows ever louder, more manic, more frenzied until finally she cries "stop it!" Immediately things seem to calm, though they're both still laughing.

"You know, I'm a bit worried about Harry," Hermione says, her voice ringing through loud and clear now. Lovely. My pathetic existence is now the topic of their pillow talk. And it's not that I don't appreciate their concern or the strength of our friendship, but I feel like a constant interruption, a hindrance, to their relationship. Right now, they're obviously in a honeymoon period where they're obsessed with each other and in a sort of euphoric haze all the time. They deserve it, too, after everything, and I wish they wouldn't put their energy into worrying about me.

"You're really thinking about Harry right now?" asks Ron, sounding half-puzzled and half-amused.

"He just seems so… forlorn," she remarks. Because I am too nosy for my own good, I train my ears on this. They clearly have no idea I'm in here.

"I know, it's not like fifth year when he was just angry and hated everything," Ron concedes. "Well, actually, he does still snap at us sometimes, have you noticed?"

"I know, but I just don't want to see him give up so easily."

"You're driving him mad, you know."

"Well, fine," Hermione states haughtily, "he'll thank me later."

"You're driving me mad too."

"Am I?" she asks in a completely different tone.

"In a different way, but yeah." Their voices drop again into murmurs and little peals of laughter, so I resume my search.

Why do we have so much hangover potion? Neither of us drinks much, and so they must be a relic from Sirius' time here. The thought sends a pang of regret through me; he hated hiding out here, unable to help, trapped in the home of the family that disowned him. And the one time he left, to help my arse out of a self-inflicted jam, he died.

There's some rather noisy kissing emitting from the room next door, and I can't tell if the walls are that thin or they just kiss that loudly. My eye is still throbbing, almost closing shut, which really hinders my hunt. If the occasional squeak of the bed and quiet moan is any indication, things are escalating next door so I have to be expedient. And try as I might to make a ruckus to drown them out as I dig through the cupboards, I'm not successful in either endeavor.

The creaking of the bedsprings turns from sporadic to revoltingly rhythmic right around the time I determine that we do not own any bruise removal paste.

 _Screw it,_ I think as I hobble downstairs. I'll just do it the Muggle way.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Please leave a review :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed or favorited or put on alert! You're the best. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

* * *

On Tuesday, Ron tells me that Ginny's made Quidditch captain. When I ask him how he knows, he gives me a withering look and says, "my mum owls every day about very trivial matters, so I know all."

On Wednesday, Ron and Hermione attempt to make a steak and kidney pie from scratch. Its charred remains end up in the bin, and we end up eating takeaway curry.

On Thursday, I spend six hours sitting in a tree with a senior Auror as we stake out a suspected Death Eater. The suspect never shows up.

On Friday, I make the offer to Ron that if they both want her to, Hermione can just live here. He says he can't get too used to waking up next to her before she leaves for Hogwarts, "it'll just make it worse."

On Saturday, I allow myself to be coerced into a day trip to Diagon Alley so Hermione can buy her school supplies. After a few butterbeers and a few small tumblers of Firewhisky at the Leaky, I also allow myself to be coerced into another family dinner with the Weasleys.

I still have a black eye, though the swelling is all but gone, and I wake up on Sunday morning with a throbbing headache and a sense of existential dread. My typical method of operation in which I act first and think later really backfired on me, because there's no way that I went unnoticed in the Leaky Cauldron on a Saturday in the summer. Which, while I don't love it, is still ordinarily not a big deal. Because ordinarily, I do not get thoroughly drunk in the middle of the day.

It's all a bit of a blur. I recall stepping into the dark, dilapidated pub with my two best friends, Hermione laden down with books she refused to let Ron carry for her, and we all decided to split a basket of chips and have a few butterbeers. And I was staring out of the window while Hermione was looking through her Transfiguration book and Ron was trying to get her to stop, and I saw someone walking a big shaggy dog. The dog didn't even look like Sirius when he was transformed but it still made me think of him, and I recalled all of the hangover potion in the bathroom cupboard and how despondent he must have been. And so while Ron was saying, "you have all year to spend with your book but only six weeks left with me", I ordered a Firewhisky.

At some point, Hermione started in about Sunday dinner at the Burrow, promising me that this week it'll be so much better but if it isn't, she'll never ask me to go again. Finally I said something like "anything for you, Hermione", which made her grin with satisfaction and order another basket of chips.

I don't quite feel as though I should be made to follow through on anything I agreed to while under the influence, but I know that argument is futile with Ron and Hermione. They'll tell me that drunks are honest, so that must mean that I really do want to go to dinner. And besides, if I don't follow through on my end, then I can't enforce Hermione's promise of never making me go back again.

I drag myself down the hallway to the loo, only to find the door shut and the shower running. With a heavy sigh, I proceed down to the ground floor with the hope that some toast - no, bacon, something greasy - will get me through until I can access the potion. In the kitchen I find Hermione wearing a large maroon jumper with an R on it and standing at the stove, dancing lightly side to side as she tends to something in a skillet.

"Good morning," she smiles, never ceasing her lighthearted movements. Over her shoulder, I see several strips of bacon sizzling gloriously.

"Morning," I reply. "What're you in such a good mood for?"

"It's a nice day," she says with a little shrug.

"Be careful with that jumper," I tell her grumpily as she uses a pair of tongs to turn the bacon in the pan. "Those sleeves are going to catch fire."

"I'll be fine, but thanks." Turning from the stove, she studies my face. "Would you like some bacon?"

"Merlin, yes," I groan, making her laugh. With my bloodshot eyes and pale face, I'm not exactly the picture of good health.

I eat slice after slice of fatty, greasy, delectable bacon, which does serve to settle my stomach a bit. I don't know where Hermione even procured all of this bacon, since we're terrible about keeping the house stocked with groceries, but I won't question it. I must be on my seventh or eighth slice when Ron comes loping down the stairs, hair still wet. He lays a loud, smacking kiss on Hermione's lips and then meets my eyes, irritatingly smug.

"How you feeling this morning?" he asks me, using Hermione's shoulder as an armrest.

"Fine," I reply curtly.

"Now that he's eaten his weight in bacon," adds Hermione. Scowling at her, I shove an entire slice in my mouth and chew as they snicker at me. I suppose I could let it bother me, the pair of them teaming up against me, but it was always going to end up coming to this. We didn't know it when we were a bunch of little eleven-year-olds and our biggest concern was Hagrid harboring an illegal dragon, but it was always going to be those two, together, and then me. And for a minute there, probably around the time Lavender broke up with Ron and Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup, I expected that our little group would rework itself into two pairs of two, but I was not so lucky.

"You look cute in this," Ron says in a low voice to Hermione, tugging on the sides of her jumper.

"I look ridiculous in this."

"Yeah, same thing."

He puts a finger under her chin to tilt her face up toward his, and I realize that the loo is unoccupied. The bacon has helped, but the stairs require way too much effort, so I use my wand to summon the potion. It tastes like a combination of bananas and seaweed going down, but within minutes my headache has cleared, my stomach is soothed, and my eyes no longer burn. Actually, I feel better than I have in a long time.

As they're snogging and letting the bacon burn, a small barn owl tumbles through the fireplace with a newspaper clutched in his beak, so I retrieve the paper and place a few Knuts into the little pouch tied to his leg. As I unfold the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet, I am greeted by a large moving photo of myself drinking morosely from a tumbler of Firewhisky. _Potter Hits the Bottle_ , reads the headline. The article is penned by - who else? - Rita Skeeter, so Merlin only knows what her imaginative mind has dreamed up this time.

 _Harry Potter_ , begins the article, and ugh, I can just hear her voice in my head, _age seventeen, was spotted late Saturday night in the Leaky Cauldron with longtime friend Ron Weasley and suspected secret lover Hermione Granger._

"Oh, for crying out loud," I exclaim, tossing the paper down onto the counter. But then curiosity gets the better of me, as it so often does, and I keep reading.

 _Weasley is only the latest in Granger's long list of conquests, which includes Bulgarian Quidditch star Viktor Krum and Potter himself (Granger does fancy famous men, and tellingly only displayed interest in Weasley after he earned renown as Potter's sidekick). While the two openly engaged in sickening displays of affection, Potter seemed to drink himself into an oblivion._

 _"It was really sad," says an eyewitness. "Harry said something like 'I'd do anything for you, Hermione' and that Ron bloke didn't even catch on. He seems kind of thick."_

My fist tightens angrily around the paper - Hermione does not have a long list of conquests and Ron is not thick - but I keep reading.

 _Could the strain of carrying on a secret romance be wearing Potter down? Several eyewitnesses say that he drank several glasses of Firewhisky and had to be carried out on the shoulders of Weasley himself, the very friend he is betraying with his secret affair. Only time will tell if Potter, who once had such a promising future, will allow his torrid affair and new penchant for alcohol to be his downfall._

I chuck the paper down onto the counter with such force that it makes my plate of bacon rattle about, and the lovebirds finally spring apart.

"What's wrong?" asks Hermione, and all I can do is hand them the paper.

Look, I know people are going to fabricate stories about me. I know that after everything I've been through and everything I've done, I'm going to be in the public eye. But it's the things that they say about my friends that really get to me. Calling Ron thick or my sidekick when I'd be dead without him, implying Hermione is some sort of scarlet woman obsessed with famous men, it just infuriates me in a way that suggesting I have a drinking problem doesn't.

"I thought I was your one and only, Hermione," Ron says jokingly as he reads over her shoulder. "How could you do this to me?" While he pretends to choke up, however, Hermione does not see the humor.

"Where's my jam jar?" she asks sharply, eyes flashing with rage.

"Hermione-" Ron begins, trying to temper her. We both know her mind immediately went to repeating her actions from the end of our fourth year, when Hermione decided to teach unregistered Animagus Rita Skeeter a lesson by trapping her in a jar while she was in her transformed state.

"Jam jar!" she repeats. Standing on her toes, she starts searching frantically through the cabinets. Ron looks over at me - I can only shrug at him - and then back at Hermione, who is currently grumbling to herself as she shoves aside bowls and goblets. "Maybe there's one upstairs!"

"It's not worth it," Ron says as he steps in front of her and places a hand on each of her shoulders. "It's just a stupid article."

"It's not! She can call me a slag all she wants but the things she's saying about you and Harry-"

"Hermione," he says again. "Tomorrow there will be some crazy article about Voldemort having a secret love child or something and everyone will forget about this."

"He's right," I add in, even though I'm still pretty irritated about the things that were written about them.

"Is he?" asks Hermione, swiveling in Ron's embrace to face me. "About the love child thing too?"

"Oh, I don't know. If that had been in Dumbledore's lessons, I definitely would have told you."

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Please review :) also, I promise that Ginny will be back in the next (and final) chapter!_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I just want to take a second to thank everyone for reading, reviewing, etc - it means so much. I hope you enjoy this final chapter!**

* * *

And so, because I struck a deal with my best friends, even though said deal makes me a bit nauseated, I find myself once again in the warm, cozy kitchen of the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley has enlisted me and Ron to assist with dinner preparations, so we're standing in the kitchen, watching vigilantly as a knife slices potatoes into neat little cubes. It almost defeats the purpose of using magic when we have to monitor it, but neither of us is quite used to cooking using magic. Part of me is worried that I've done the spell wrong, and when sharp knives are involved, it's better to be safe than sorry.

"Should we start on the carrots?" Ron asks with a look at the mountainous pile of vegetables resting on the counter.

I look at my watch. "We have time, I think. Probably best to have only one knife going at a time."

"Yeah, knowing your luck, it is."

"Thanks," I reply dryly. "Where'd Hermione go?"

"I dunno," he says casually, which strikes me as a bit peculiar. The knife slicing the potatoes comes to a stop, and Ron sweeps the pile onto a pan so they can be roasted. "I think she's with Ginny," he admits.

Since arriving unfashionably early at the Burrow this evening, the only Weasleys I've seen have been Ron's parents. Mr. Weasley's all excited because he just got his hands on a VCR, and honestly I'm amazed he isn't asking Hermione for pointers on how to work it. Not that it will do him much good without a television and a tape, but mostly he's enthralled by the fact that these items even exist. Ginny, from what I understand, is up in her room and has no interest in surfacing until dinner is served, so Hermione had shot Ron a look and headed up the stairs. This is just as well. If I don't see Ginny, she can't make me feel like I'm worth less than something stuck to the bottom of her shoe, and I won't be reminded of how beautiful she is, how brave and clever and brilliant, how we were, for a period of about twenty-three days, perfect for each other.

A thought comes over me that sends a chill over my entire body. What if we've both changed too much? I know Ginny, along with Neville and Luna, was at the heart of the Hogwarts rebellion, reviving the DA and doing things like sneaking into Snape's office. And just as living in a tent for months and being attacked in the home where my parents were killed and burying a house-elf all changed me, I'm sure those things changed her too. And I don't want to be the same as I was, but I don't want to grow apart from someone who means the world to me. During those twenty-three days, whenever I let myself picture a rosy future (rather than a grim, grisly one where I didn't live to see eighteen), I always pictured us growing and changing together in ways that complemented and supported each other, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just a teenage romance gone sour.

But I don't think it was. It didn't feel frivolous, or casual, or uncertain. It felt like I couldn't believe we waited so long, or ever dated other people (if you can call what I did with Cho dating). We settled right in, there was no awkwardness or confusion, it was just… right. Something that right, it doesn't just fade away. You can't shove it into a corner and pretend it doesn't exist. I watched my two best friends make themselves miserable trying to do just that.

"Oh, dammit," Ron grumbles, oven mitts on his hands. "Harry, can you go grab some pepper? There should be a jar in the scullery."

I agree and walk out of the kitchen, finding the door to the scullery already partially ajar. The small, square room is dark when I step inside, and I catch a glimpse of a small body and a sheet of flaming-red hair.

"Hermione, I can't find it!" she shouts, whirling around. "What the-" Then the door slams shut behind me and we're left in almost total darkness. The only source of illumination is a small window in the ceiling, but it's a bit grungy and the light is dim and yellowed.

"Now stay in there!" shouts Hermione from the other side of the door. "You're not allowed out until you're friends again!"

Even in the semi-darkness, Ginny's face is burning a bold and all-consuming scarlet as she stares at the door.

"Don't you have your wand?" she spits at me. I pat my pockets, still flabbergasted by this turn of events (I did not think Hermione's scheme would culminate in _this_ , nor did I think Ron would be complicit), and realize that for the first time in months, my wand is elsewhere. Usually, unless I'm showering or sleeping, it's in my pocket or in the waistband of my slacks. Today - the one time I let my guard down - it's lying uselessly on the counter, next to the pile of carrots that Ron had better fucking be peeling.

"No," I confess, looking anywhere but her furious eyes. "You don't have yours?"

"No, I was just coming down here to - oh, I'm so stupid to fall for this," she fumes. "Why would she send me to find something she left here?"

"What was it?" I ask despite my own burning resentment toward Ron. Here I was so impressed with his ability to be neutral in this whole thing, but he's been on Hermione's side this whole time, the tosser.

"Her Sleakeazy Hair Potion, she said she left it here after Bill's wedding - I bet it's not even in here." Pushing past me in the small space, Ginny pummels her fists against the door. "Hermione! Let us out!"

"No!" is the response from outside. I hear a low muttering - probably Ron - but the door remains locked. And knowing Hermione, she's used plenty of magic to reinforce it.

I lean back against a spice rack and stare indeterminately at a jar of pickles by Ginny's right ear. What the hell am I supposed to do now? If I knew, at all, what to say to her, I would have said it months ago. I wouldn't be the bloke who has to third-wheel on his best friends because they feel sorry for him, I wouldn't be the topic of all their private conversations and Hermione wouldn't have trapped us in a damn scullery. I can't see how she possibly thinks this will help.

"What happened to your eye?" Ginny inquires quietly.

"I found a Punching Telescope in a closet the other day," I explain, hoping to infuse a little bit of humor into the situation, "and it sort of went rogue on me."

"You deserved it," she states, her lips set in a thin line.

"Thanks."

There's maybe a foot of space between us, and that's with her standing so firmly against the shelves that she can't possibly be comfortable. I remember when we used to sneak behind tapestries at Hogwarts and it felt like I couldn't possibly be close enough to her, and now she can't get far enough away from me.

"Let's just say we're friends or whatever so she'll let us out," Ginny whispers.

"You honestly think Hermione's not listening in with an Extendable Ear?"

"Oh, you just know _everything_ , don't you?" she snaps, inching into the far corner of the room. Her face is still so red that she's bordering on beetroot, her eyes are narrow slits; she is utterly livid.

"Know what?" I decide, watching her almost vibrate with the force of her rage. "You should yell at me."

"What?"

"I can tell you want to yell at me, so yell at me." When she remains silent, I press on. "What else are you going to do in here?"

"No," she barks. "No, I'm not going to give you the satisfaction! Not when you thought you could just back expecting everything to just be how it was when you didn't even bother telling me what you were-" Catching herself, she stops and begins pounding on the door. "Hermione! Let. Us. _Out_!"

The other side of the door is dead silent; either I was wrong about Hermione spying, or she's just waiting to see how it unfolds. Ginny starts firing away at the worn-down wood with both fists.

"Open up!" she wails, now slamming her shoulder into the door. She may be one of the strongest people I know, physically and mentally, but I know she won't be able to muscle her way through that door. Yet she persists, colliding with the door with such force that it rattles on its hinges and I determine that I can't watch this happen.

"Ginny, stop!"

"No!" Jumping from the ground, she flings her entire body weight at the door but it won't budge.

"You're going to hurt yourself!"

"So _what_?"

"Is it that bad?" I bellow, stopping her frantic assault on the door. "You can't even be in a room with me anymore, it's that awful?"

"Yes!" Slumping against the door, she slides dejectedly down to the floor and then does something I have rarely seen her do.

She starts to cry.

My heart plummets into my stomach and I make the step toward her, intent on doing something, anything to to stop her from feeling this way, but she curls into a tiny ball, knees against her chest, face in her hands.

"Ginny-"

"Go away," she mumbles.

"I'm just as trapped in here as you are," I remind her. "Look, I - I know I haven't told you much. But I couldn't."

"You told Ron and Hermione," says Ginny bitterly.

Tentatively, I sit down against the wall opposite her, doing my best to make sure our feet don't touch. I reckon I'm just lucky she took her anger out on the door.

"Yeah, I did. But I couldn't tell you. I was just trying to protect you." The explanation sounds cliche and hollow now, and I know she won't accept it, but it's the truth. "But I can tell you now, if you want."

"Oh, that's nice," she sneers, her reddened cheeks marred with drying tears. "You're only saying that to smooth things over."

"No," I say calmly. "I don't - look, I reckon I ruined everything. I shouldn't have expected everything to just click back into place, but… you deserve honesty. You deserve the truth. So, if you want, I'll tell you everything, I'll sit in here all night."

Not that I fancy explaining to her why Ron walked out on us, or how Hermione was tortured to within an inch of her life, or what we were seeking when we showed up at Hogwarts, but she deserves to know. She should know why she didn't see her brother for months on end, or why her family had to go into hiding. She and Tom Riddle aren't exactly strangers, after all.

"Maybe I don't care anymore."

I could tell her anyway. I could just start talking, it's not like she has any choice but to listen. But if she's already mad about everything being on my terms, that's probably not the smartest course of action.

"Okay," I nod. Ginny grabs a pouch of gummy worms from a low shelf next to her and rips into it, angrily biting the head off of one.

"I'm hungry," she explains, and I hold my hands up defensively. "Do you want one?" The bag is thrust into my face, so I select a yellow and green one. I wouldn't put it past Hermione to keep us in here during dinner, though Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would surely notice our absence.

How do I explain to her that I just don't want her to hate me without it coming back to somehow bite me in the ass? I can hear the argument now - that I should have thought about that before vanishing for several months, walking willingly to my own death, and then coming back and thinking we'd just fall back into place. Deep down, I don't think she truly hates me. She's just angry, and sometimes that just takes time.

"Maybe I don't even want a boyfriend," she says suddenly, voice dripping with vinegar.

"I never said anything about being your boyfriend."

Of course, I would love to be her boyfriend again. It killed me that I couldn't hold her while she cried at Fred's funeral and it kills me now that I find out things like her making Quidditch captain through her brother, and that I won't be visiting her in Hogsmeade next year. But that's a pipe dream now, a distant memory. I can't hope for things like that. After last year, shouldn't I just be grateful that she's alive and safe, that (most of) my friends survived, that against all odds I accomplished my mission?

"Well…" I've clearly caught her off guard with my nonchalance. "Just so you know."

"Okay."

"Because I'm going back to school anyway, it would be stupid." Who's she trying to convince anyway, me or herself?

"I know. I heard you're Quidditch captain."

"How did you know that?"

"I live with your brother."

She wrinkles her nose in disdain for Ron. "I figured he spent all his time with Hermione."

"He does, but we do talk occasionally." I'm going to hear it from the pair of them for that comment, if they are indeed listening in, but I don't mean it maliciously. They do spend a lot of time together, and they should.

"Do you…" Ginny bites off another stretchy piece of the gummy worm. "Do you get lonely?"

After a long pause marked by chewing on both our ends, I finally opt for honesty. "Yes. But it's okay. I've got Auror training to keep me busy."

"Yeah."

Through the crack in the door, the smell of the roast is wafting in, which means dinner will be served soon. Truth be told, I'd rather stay in here with Ginny. It's calm and quiet and we're having what can almost be called a civil conversation. I'm rather accustomed to being locked in small spaces, anyway, thanks to my aunt and uncle.

"What happened to Hermione?" asks Ginny.

"Oh, I'm sure she's still out there, she's just not talking."

"No, I mean… she has a scar on her neck that she didn't used to have." My stomach rolls over. "And Bill said she was in terrible shape when you lot got to his house… what happened?"

"She was tortured for information," I say, suddenly fascinated by my own hands, "by Bellatrix Lestrange."

"What? Why?"

"None of it makes sense unless I tell you the whole story from the beginning, and even then… you might not fully understand what it was like. But I can try to explain. If that's okay with you." She swallows heavily, and even in the thin, distorted light, I can see the conflict on her face. "Or I can answer your question, but that might just make it more confusing."

"Okay," she nods, steeling herself. "The beginning."

So I tell her. I start with explaining that the diary she toted around her entire first year at Hogwarts contained a piece of Voldemort's soul, but that I had destroyed it in the Chamber of Secrets, though I hadn't fully understood what I was doing at the time. Then I explain that my private lessons with Dumbledore during my sixth year were teaching me about Horcruxes, because Dumbledore was operating on a theory that Voldemort had split his soul into seven pieces to ensure his immortality. I explain about the locket, which she remembers from Grimmauld Place all those years ago, and how it took great pleasure in trying to destroy us before we could destroy it. I do my best, my absolute best, to do my friend justice as I explain that the locket had driven him mad, that he wasn't in his right mind when he stormed out, that he did want to come back right away but got caught up by Snatchers. I tell her how he saved my life by returning when he did, and how he became our driving force in the weeks that seemed most bleak. I tell her how it was my fault that the Snatchers caught us in March and how they took us to Malfoy Manor to be identified by Draco, who couldn't commit one way or the other. I explain how we were held captive while Hermione was tortured and Ron broke his hands from pounding on the cellar walls in his panic to get to her. I tell her everything, even the part where I spoke to Dumbledore in a sort of purgatory before choosing to go on. She hardly speaks, barely moves, until I conclude the tale.

"I don't expect anything from you," I say candidly. "I know I should have been honest with you a lot sooner. You were - you _are_ \- incredibly important to me, and at the time, I just needed you to be safe. And I still need that. Even if you hate me, even if we never talk again after we get out of here. So now at least you know. Do with it what you will."

"I don't hate you," she says in a low voice. "I never did." For a second, she picks at a loose thread in the knee of her jeans. "I know you couldn't tell me back then, but it's just… everything's different now."

"I know."

"I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

"But I won't always be."

I drop my chin on my knee and nod, unable to suppress the smile that fights to consume my face. It's stupid to be so happy about something so small, but it feels like a weight has lifted off my shoulders just from the mere act of talking about the past twelve months. It feels like progress. We're moving at a flobberworm's pace, but at least she's not trying to hex me or fire my own mistakes back in my face at every turn. I don't know what's going to happen next. I know I probably won't dread visits to the Burrow or snipe at Ron and Hermione over little things anymore.

The world did tilt on its axis. Everything changed after the war. Voldemort is gone, really gone this time, but so is Fred, so is Remus, so is Tonks, so is Dobby. And the old Harry and Ginny, they've gone too. Ron and Hermione aren't the same people they were before the locket and Bellatrix, but those things broke them and then made them into stronger people. Just because things are simple for them now doesn't mean Ginny and I will work the same way. Maybe it's silly to compare when our stories are so different. Maybe I just need to be grateful for what I do have, which right now is a gorgeous girl on the floor of a dusty scullery, offering me a gummy worm.

I laugh and take an orange one, and somehow she's offended.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I assure her. "Is it so wrong that I missed you?"

"Yes," she snaps before softening. "Well, just come round for dinner more often then. Mum still cooks three times as much food as we need."

"Okay," I agree. "I will."

Ginny's right, everything's different now. But, I decide as we sit in the quasi-darkness, that might not be such a bad thing.

* * *

 _Thank you so, so much for reading this story! When I first wrote this story I wasn't sure if anyone would like it but me (because like... it's Hinny but it's Romione? It's angst but funny? I still don't know!) so it's meant a lot that people have responded positively. I hope that even though they didn't exactly end up professing their undying love and making out in the scullery, that you enjoyed this little journey!_ _Please share your thoughts in the reviews!_


End file.
